life, death, love and other forms of poetry by alcoholic poet

Wearing the hours around her neck. Like hundreds of miscarraiges. I don't know. I test the time machine. For more of us. The replica. The heavy sheet. That covers the open door.

She sleeps like a child. She wakes up like woman. The difference she says in purpose. The fractions. Still revising. Failing flesh. The motors. In the machine still humming. As she loses herself in it.

Not then. Or now. Or here with them. But someday. When all the buttons are pushed. And then is as weak as we are now. This will all make sense.

All these machines will be useless. And we will laugh. At the moments they once used to threaten us.